


spice on your tongue

by portraitofemmy



Series: on honey and jam [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alpha Eliot Waugh, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Get Consent Before You Go Into Heat, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Quentin Coldwater, Pining, Post-Mosaic Timeline (The Magicians: A Life in the Day), Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, no dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26704294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: It’s barely there, at first, an almost spicy undercurrent, like chili left to steep in a jar of honey. But as in the way of things, it builds over time, and fucking—crawlsunder Eliot’s skin, that pheromone change, winding him up. He stops eyeing up Lunk because instead he vaguely wants tokill him, another alpha in his territory, which is just so not Eliot’s style that he kind of wants to laugh at himself. Eliot doesn’t get territorial during ruts, helikesspending ruts with other alphas, it’s what heseeks out. But this—This isn’t a rut, at least not a real one.Quentin's first heat at the mosaic.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: on honey and jam [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1942912
Comments: 23
Kudos: 198





	spice on your tongue

**Author's Note:**

> So you may notice this is not an update to the Encanto fic. I promise that's coming, but this wiggled into my brain and I couldn't help but make a slight detour. Thank you very much to **Hth** for spending literally hours talking to be me about ABO world building, and to **propinquitous** for cheerleading, beta reading, and general support and encouragement.
> 
> Happy Monday everyone! Enjoy!

They sleep together long before they ever _sleep together_. 

(Except that’s not quite true, because Eliot remembers— god, he tries not to but he _remembers_ Quentin caught between him and Margo, the way he’d gone just _boneless_ and sweet and needy, nearly fucking high on two alpha scents, eyes glazed and skin hot. It’s still there in snapshots when Eliot closes his eyes, Quentin’s hot hungry mouth wet against Eliot’s cock while Margo guided her clit into him— how he’d begged for their knots, both of them, begged to be filled.)

But that was practically a different life. Those felt like other people, those terrified and reckless grad students who didn’t know what it was like to rule, or to lose themselves, or to lose magic. It didn’t count because of the emotion bottles, and it didn’t count because that Quentin was barely the same man Eliot had by his side now every day, sorting and stacking tiles.

Quentin dens, Eliot’s known this about him for a long time, he dens for comfort and security, and he dens to give himself a place to hide. Maybe Eliot doesn’t surround himself with a lot of omegas, but he knows dens are sacred. He’d know that just from knowing Quentin, even if he was less informed about the world. Their first couple nights here Eliot has all kinds of noble ideas about respecting Quentin’s space and being a gentleman and not forcing himself into Quentin’s only bubble of privacy. But he also can’t set at ease the part of himself that just balked at the idea of letting someone he cares about out of his sight in a strange place, even with wards up around the clearing. So those first couple nights on the mosaic, he sleeps on the ground outside the door to the cottage.

He thinks he’s getting away with it at first, gaming the system. He’s more prone to early rising than Quentin is, so he’s always up and about by the time Quentin stumbles out of the cottage in the morning. He had failed to take Quentin’s insomnia into account in this brilliant strategy, however. It means a rather rude awakening in the middle of the night, the first time Quentin’s restless enough to try and wander, and ends up literally stepping on Eliot on his way out of the little cottage.

“The fuck are you doing, Eliot?” Quentin mumbles, grumpy but soft, like he’s too tired to deal with the fact that Eliot’s being an idiot. 

If Eliot had been more awake and less literally kicked in the stomach, he probably wouldn’t have said “Guarding you, asshole.” Probably. Sometimes his mouth just says shit without his brian being totally on board. Though admittedly it happens less when he’s sober. “Can you just let me do my dumb alpha shit in peace, please?”

Quentin blinks at him, then says “No.” Eliot’s stomach drops, but he barely has time to worry before Quentin’s reaching down and taking Eliot by the wrist, hauling him up to stand. Quentin’s thumb brushes the scent gland there, and Eliot shivers. “Come on, the bed’s big enough for both of us.”

“Q...” Eliot protests, but Quentin’s already dragging him by the wrist through the wide open space of the main room of the cabin with its broken chairs and rickety table, back through to the little bedroom at the back. 

The bed is big enough, though Quentin’s got it pushed into the far corner so it’s only open to the room on one side. Everything in the room smells like straw and Quentin, including the quilt tossed across the bed. It _feels_ like a den, like Eliot shouldn’t be here, like it’s not his place. But Quentin just crawls onto the bed first, settling down near the wall like he’s happy to be trapped there. Eliot follows him, and carefully doesn’t think about how much better he feels, knowing he’s directly between Quentin and any threat. He doesn’t let himself think about Quentin’s scent or the softness of his breathing, doesn’t think about how quickly Quentin falls asleep, doesn’t think about anything at all until he’s asleep himself.

It’s shockingly easy to get used to sharing sleep. They’ve always been tactile friends and Eliot’s generally a tactile person, so it’s not surprising that they rarely end up spending the whole night on opposite sides of the bed. More often than not there’s just a single simple point of contact, Eliot’s arm across Quentin’s waist or Quentin’s forehead in the middle of Eliot’s back, tangled feet or a hand around a bicep. But sometimes it’s more, Quentin rolling in tight to Eliot’s chest, silently (and eventually not so silently) asking to be held. That usually ends up with Quentin nuzzling into the open collar of Eliot’s shirt. He’s seeking scent, Eliot knows. He weathers the intimate sensation of breath against the scent gland on his throat, and breathes through the absolute mind-fuck of _omega in my arms, scenting me_. It’s just Quentin, he tells himself, he’s just seeking comfort. Isn’t it comforting to let him?

That’s the thing. It actually, really, is.

Q’s sweet-honey scent clings to Eliot, he can smell it whenever the wind catches in the clearing the right way. Eliot doesn’t mind. He always liked Quentin’s scent when it wasn’t soured by anxiety or sadness, a good homey smell that put Eliot in mind of biscuits and tea and stickiness of a honey jar on his fingertips. Margo had complained about it being cloying, back in the old days when Quentin was just a jittery little omega who seemed to have imprinted on them like a duckling. Though Margo’d had some opinions about exactly who’d imprinted on whom, as Eliot experimented with new ways to work honey into his cocktails. 

Thinking of Margo now makes sharp pangs of longing cut through Eliot’s chest, a sadness that was easier to deal with if he didn’t think about it much. So he tries not to. However, that means sometimes instead he ends up thinking about how he can smell himself on Quentin, like when Q’s talking to the pretty beta girl who keeps coming by selling fruit. He wonders if she can smell Eliot on him, the scent of alpha catching on the wind from Quentin’s clothes and hair and skin... Probably not, betas’ ability to scent is less acute, and Quentin’s own beehive scent is stronger than whatever Eliot’s left on him from sharing a bed.

Still, he likes the idea. He’d have to be an idiot not to know that he likes it.

He’s just not going to do anything about it, because Quentin’s his friend. He _cares_ about Quentin, and the fact that Q trusts him enough, has always trusted him enough, to let him into his space, into his bed, even offered him to take Eliot into his den once— That trust matters more than anything else. Eliot needs to _protect_ him, and if that means protecting him from Eliot’s own self-destruction, well. He can do that. He can not use Quentin as another diversion, something else to bury himself in until it becomes toxic. Quentin’s his _best friend_ , and a good person, and it doesn’t matter how much Eliot likes his scent. The one time Eliot let his thoughtless alpha desire run away with him and _took_ what Quentin never meant to offer, it nearly broke them for good. Eliot’s used to ruining the good things in his life, but Quentin deserves better than that.

It’s a weird dichotomy. All things being equal, Eliot figures he can blow up his own life in a way that’s less likely to hurt Quentin in the backlash. 

But every morning he wakes up to Q’s scent, and every night he lays down into it. It’s a level of intimacy he’s never had with an omega before, hasn’t really had with _anyone_ before. He’s learning to read the pattern of emotions, how they change and affect that waxy honey smell. Quentin’s bright when he’s happy, like drops of lemon in sweet tea. Melancholy brought out the muskier notes, a smell of binder’s wax like old books. Anger is acrid like fermentation, but it rarely lasts. They bicker and shout and vent as they smash headlong into this undoable task, over and over, but Quentin’s anger never lingers beyond the spat. The days they fight are the nights Quentin’s most likely to end up curled in close, cold nose against the exposed skin of Eliot’s throat, like he’s got to make sure Eliot will still let him in. 

Eliot thinks all the time about how that leaves his own scent smeared across Quentin’s nose and mouth, but he doesn’t do anything about it. 

Self-destruct in some other way.

He drinks as much as he can with their limited supply of available alcohol, wishing every day that he’d just brought his fucking flask with him when they stepped through the portal. But he’d stopped carrying it, lack of magic rendering it mundane, just another reminder of how everything had gone to shit. He wishes he could smoke. He wishes he could get _fucked_ , honestly, shooting speculative looks at the alpha following Arielle around (Lunk? His name was actually Lunk, like some caricature from the grocery store dime novels his mother used to read) who looks strong enough and dumb enough that he might enjoy asserting his dominance over another alpha. Eliot would enjoy that— it would at least get Quentin’s honey-scent out of his nose.

He’s still marinating on the idea, mostly if it’s worth hurting Arielle, who he does actually like. He keeps seeing Alice in the Library in his mind’s eye, the down-turn to her mouth and the flint in her voice when she said _you were one of my only friends, Eliot_. He’d like to think he’s genuinely grown as a person since then. Still, he hasn’t ruled it out entirely by the time he starts to notice the change in Quentin’s scent.

It’s barely there, at first, an almost spicy undercurrent, like chili left to steep in a jar of honey. But as in the way of things, it builds over time, and fucking— _crawls_ under Eliot’s skin, that pheromone change, winding him up. He stops eyeing up Lunk because instead he vaguely wants to _kill him_ , another alpha in his territory, which is just so not Eliot’s style that he kind of wants to laugh at himself. Eliot doesn’t get territorial during ruts, he _likes_ spending ruts with other alphas, it’s what he _seeks out_. But this— 

This isn’t a rut, at least not a real one, one driven by his own hormone balance. Which means he and Q need to talk about some things, and soon, before decisions get made for them.

“There’s no way to put this delicately so I’m not going to beat around the bush,” Eliot says that night once they’re sitting next to the cooking fire in the cottage. Quentin’s curled up near it like he’s a little chilly; he probably is. Eliot settles near him, but with more distance than he might usually leave, feeling restless and uncomfortably aware of his long limbs, gangly in a way he hasn’t felt since he was a teenager. He’s spent years cultivating grace, but it’s difficult to maintain with the unsettled feeling in his body, this itchy, restless feeling of impending rut when he’s not due for it. Taking a deep breath, he looks into Quentin’s quizzical face and rips the bandaid off. “Okay, here goes: when was the last time you had a heat?”

Quentin blinks, visibly processing the question and then thinking back. “Oh, um— before we came here.” Which, yes, Eliot knows that. He almost says so, but Quentin’s frowning, looking into the fire. “Before the key quest, while we were just— learning theoretical magic at Brakebills. I think it was probably about eight months ago?”

“So you’re overdue,” Eliot says, as gently as he can manage when he’s trying to keep himself from doing something extremely dumb like grabbing Quentin’s wrist and licking it.

But Q’s still frowning. “I guess. I don’t know, I miss heats sometimes. My body’s not—” he flushes, then shoots Eliot a sheepish look. “Sorry, I’m not used to talking about this with alphas.”

“It’s okay,” Eliot promises, trying to make himself as nonthreatening as possible. It’s a weird, sharp little pain, a spike of hurt because— Eliot tries very hard not to be the kind of alpha who seems threatening. He’s tried to not seem like an alpha at all, at various points in his life, though less so now than when he was younger. Still, Quentin doesn’t have the burned-caramel smell of fear on him, but there’s apprehension on his face, and Eliot shakes his head. “You don’t have to go into detail with me if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t really mind,” Quentin admits, tipping his head a little in thought. It just so happens to expose the soft underside of his jaw, drawing Eliot’s focus to the tender skin of his throat. “I trust you, it’s just different. Most of my friends in my life have been betas.”

_I trust you_ — Eliot could fucking _purr_. He wants to stalk around the cottage, he wants to _protect_ , to prove he’s worthy of that trust. But he’s not an _animal_ , so he just pulls his feet in to sit cross-legged, resting his hands carefully on his knees. “I know what you mean. I’m new to this, too. But Q, you _smell_ like you’re going into heat.”

A red blush stains across Quentin’s cheeks, god, he looks mortified, Eliot wishes he could spare him from this. “I do?”

“Yeah,” Eliot confirms, softly, fingers aching to reach out. “Just a little, I probably wouldn’t notice except I’m so close to you every day. But it’s also making me— want to act like a crazy person, and so I think we need to talk about it, because we need to set a course here, and soon.”

“I didn’t notice,” Quentin sighs, rubbing a hand up over his hair, pushing it back. “My body’s not the most reliable about these things, I miss heats sometimes, or have weak ones. God, I’m sorry, I should be better about this.”

“It’s okay,” Eliot promises, god he wants to soothe, wants to get his fingers into Quentin’s hair and pet him until he calms down, until he’s soft and sweet and boneless in Eliot’s arms. “It happens. I just want to know what you want me to do.”

“I— What?” Quentin asks, confused, blinking over at Eliot.

“If I’m going to leave, I should go soon,” Eliot continues, spinning out the thoughts he’s been circling around for the majority of the day. “I think at this point I’m gonna end up in a sympathy rut either way, but I can definitely manage myself if it comes to that. I can go into the village and find— someone. Or not, and just ride it out alone.” 

The idea of leaving Quentin alone and vulnerable, without anyone to protect him when he’s weak and out of his mind— Eliot hates it, he _hates it_ , but he’d do it. He can protect Quentin from himself. But Q frowns, like he hates that idea as much as Eliot does. “I guess...”

“Or I could stay,” Eliot says, gently, flexing his hands on his knees. “It’s not my rut-brain talking when I say I don’t love the idea of you being alone while you’re hurting. If you want... _help_ , I’m. I mean, I’d be honored—”

“ _El,_ ” Quentin groans out, burying his face in his hands. “Can you stop talking like this is a heat-porn for a second? Do you _want_ to have sex with me? Like normal me, not in-heat me.”

“I—” Eliot starts, and then stutters to a stop, at a loss. “I mean— yes?”

“Because I distinctly remember inviting you into my nest when I was denning after I found out my dad was sick and you _turned me down._ And then you and Margo fucked me like two months later _,_ so like— you can see how I’m getting some mixed messages, here.”

Eliot’s head is spinning, he is not _nearly_ drunk enough for this. “I care about you,” he says, reasonably. “You’re important to me. And yes, I’m— _attracted_ to you, god, Q, you’re beautiful and you smell _so good_. So if I can help you when you need it— no, listen!” he cuts off when Quentin starts to protest. “I know you’ve probably ridden out heats alone most of your life, and if you want to do that this time, that’s _fine_. But you don’t have to, there’s another option, there’s someone who wants to take care of you here. That’s all I’m saying.”

“And then what happens?” Quentin asks, a kind of sadness in his eyes.

Eliot’s heart jumps into his throat, because— There’s what he wants, isn’t there, and then what makes sense. He wants to put a bite on Quentin’s throat and make a home in Quentin’s den and spend the rest of his life soaked in Quentin’s honey-scent. But— “It doesn’t have to change anything. Let’s just... save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?”

___

It takes straight up begging at the general goods store in the local village, and a promise of his services that is way more vague than Eliot is really comfortable with, but he manages to secure himself a woven blanket. The fabric is rougher and squishier than the soft thin quilt they’ve been using for months, but literal beggars can’t be choosers. He treks back to the cabin with a pack full of hard cheese and dried meats and nuts and a small precious bundle of oatcakes to supplement their endless supply of stone fruit, and the new blanket rolled up on top of it all. 

All told, he’s been gone from the cabin for about 6 hours, but the sense of relief he feels upon stepping back within the wards is so strong it’s almost dizzying. Quentin’s nowhere to be seen, but that’s hardly surprising. Truly, it would be weirder to find him out in the open right now, given how hard he dens, how close the heat is. The scent of it smacks Eliot in the face the moment he pushes the door to cabin open, that sweet spicy smell, unmistakable: omega in heat, _my omega in heat—_

“Hey,” he calls out, swallowing around the rush of saliva in his mouth, god— he’s going to lose his damned mind. There’s not a lot of space in the main room of the cabin, but Quentin’s already making the best of it, old worn furniture pushed off to the sides of the room leaving as much space as possible in front of the fireplace. He’s got the quilt spread out on the floor and the two pillows from the bed tucked down in it, and it’s such a meager nest but Quentin smiles up at him anyway, little quirk to his mouth.

“Hey. How was the village?”

“Oh, same as ever. I didn’t exactly stay to gossip,” Eliot says, shrugging his pack off and propping it up on the shoved aside table so he can reach in and fish out the squishy new blanket. Pulse beating in his ears with something like apprehension, he pulls it out without fanfare, turning to hold it out towards Quentin. “Here, I thought— you need more than a single shitty quilt if you’re going to be on the floor for days.”

“Fuck you, this quilt is great.” There’s absolutely no heat to it, though, as Quentin reaches out to take the blanket from Eliot’s hands. His face is impossibly tender, so touched it almost _hurts_ , Eliot wants to look away but he can’t make himself. Instead he’s left watching the way Quentin’s fingers curl into the woven material of the blanket, the peeled-open rawness of his gratitude making Eliot feel skinned himself. His voice is soft when he says “Thanks, El.”

Feeling some kind of weird mix of desperate pride and fondness, Eliot just nods, finally managing to tear his eyes away to finish unloading the pack. The food he tucks away within arms reach of the den so they won’t have to— so that when they’re all worn out there will be food near at hand. Then Eliot tucks the pack away near Quentin’s trusty leather messenger bag, which is somehow still holding on five months into this ride. Looking around the cabin, Eliot tries to find something else useful to do, anything, anything else Quentin might need in the middle of a heat. 

“Can I—” Quentin starts, pulling Eliot’s attention back to him, then cuts off with pink blush staining his cheeks. It heats up his scent, hot honey and chili, god, Eliot’s fucking _mouth is watering_ , and he’s not even all the way into the heat yet. 

“What, baby?” Eliot asks, watching him with that burbling fondness pushing up against the base of his throat. The pet name slips off his tongue without thought, and god— he wants to say it again, wrap the syllables of it around his tongue, taste it. _Baby. My baby._ “What do you need?”

Quentin seems to steel himself, crouching down next to the little pile of fabric, their quilt and Eliot’s offering. Because that’s what it is, he’d be kidding himself to pretend not to know what giving an omega padding for their den means, the show of _look what I can provide for you_. It’s not even the first time he’s done this for Quentin, and whenever he thinks about that too much it makes his head spin. There’s nothing else he could ask for that Eliot wouldn’t give, at this point. “Can I have your vest?”

Some kind of deep, unknown hunger curls in Eliot’s chest as he shrugs off the worn fabric, passing it over to Quentin without a second thought. Q awkwardly wiggles his way out of his own hoodie and moves into the pile of blankets barefoot, not really looking at Eliot as he goes through the baffling process of convincing a pile of fabric to stay together, weaving his own and Eliot’s scent into his nest. The thought is electrifying, it makes Eliot want to push him down on his back and scent him, rub his nose against the tender stretch of Quentin’s throat until his boneless and loose in Eliot’s arms—

Plenty of time for that later, though. 

He busies himself filling waterskins at the pump behind the cottage so he doesn’t just stand there like a knot-brained idiot watching Quentin nest. He _wants_ to, so badly, wants to crouch protectively while Q does this vulnerable thing, wants to make sure their den is safe. It would be so nice to get to watch while Quentin makes a place for them, soft and safe and smelling like them. It’s almost confusing how much he wants it, Eliot’s never wanted a _den_ , except—

He’d sat outside Quentin’s closet all night, the day Q found out his father was dying. He’d stayed awake all night, sitting with his back to the wall outside while Q’s soft little distressed sounds faded into sleep, thought, _Idiot, you could have had him_ and then _You’re making him suffer when you could help_ and then _He deserves better than that_ and then _He deserves more than you_.

And now Eliot is Quentin’s only option, a better choice than weathering a heat alone, but still not what he should have. What right does Eliot have to the comfort of a den, when he’s being invited in because of _biology_? Quentin’s body is reacting to Eliot’s pheromones, the same way Quentin’s are driving him into rut, a false rut, this isn’t even what Eliot wants during rut, he wants to be knotted, he wants it to _hurt,_ he wants to _know his place—_

The waterpump snags on his hand, the old metal slicing into the meat of his palm, bringing blood to the surface like a knife pronouncing him high king of this fucking clearing. Some fucking sexist bullshit that was, two omegas and a beta in their little merry band of men and Eliot, the worst alpha in the fucking world, was the one that was destined or whatever. Fucking Fillory.

_When was the last time I got a tetanus shot?_ Eliot wonders absently, staring at the blood on his hand. He can’t even feel it, really, and that _is_ the rut, turning his sense perception all around. He doesn’t have a handkerchief handy this time, so he scoops up the filled waterskins and heads back into the cabin.

Q looks up when the door swings open, worry creasing his brow the moment he sees Eliot’s hand. “What happened?”

“Water pump,” Eliot sighs, dropping the full waterskins down next to Quentin’s nest and beginning to root around for some clean cloth. There really isn’t much, everything in the cabin is covered in chalk dust. 

“Let me see?” Quentin asks, scooting over to the edge of the nest. 

Eliot goes to him without conscious thought, kneeling down next to the outer boundary of the nest. Quentin’s hands are strong and square, capable in a way that makes Eliot feel warm and a little bitey about it. He’s gentle when he takes Eliot’s hand in his, broad palm cradling the back of Eliot's hand while he performs a one-handed tut over it to clean away the blood. The cut is smaller than Eliot had thought, and shallow. 

“I hope you know I’m desperately resisting a very gross urge to lick your hand right now,” Quentin murmurs, smoothing his thumb over the cut instead. Magic tingles across Eliot’s skin, Quentin’s good, solid, physical magic knitting the torn skin back together across the palm of Eliot’s hand. 

Eliot laughs, light and soft, head dropping down onto Quentin’s shoulder. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I didn’t either,” Quentin admits, thumb still stroking over Eliot’s palm. There’s a change in his scent, something Eliot thinks means... pleased, or content. This close, with his temple resting on the soft warm material of Quentin’s shirt, it’s all he can smell. Literally all he can think about. Quentin, Quentin, _Q._

“Thanks,” he mutters, and he means _Thanks for fixing my hand_ , and also maybe _Thanks for trusting me with this_. Quentin just hums, reaching out to slide his arm around Eliot's shoulders and tugging, trying to pull Eliot bodily into the nest. “Wait, wait, wait,” he protests, laughing, pulling out of Quentin’s grip long enough to pull off his shoes and socks, so he’s not tracking the wet dirt from outside into Quentin’s nest. 

Q’s watching him when Eliot looks up, sitting in the nest with his arms around his knees, chin resting on his forearms. He smiles a little when Eliot meets his eyes, gaze going warm and happy when Eliot crawls in next to him. All he’s done is move a couple feet across the floor, really, but it _feels_ — important. Makes that protective, needy thing in his chest purr contentedly, as he settles to sit next to Q.

“How are you feeling?”

Quentin makes a face, rolling his eyes. “Sweaty, mostly. A little bit like I might cry every time you leave the room which is embarrassing as fuck.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eliot promises, reaching out to catch Quentin’s wrist, rub his thumb against the scent gland there. It’s familiar, something they’ve done literally dozens of times, and yet. The gland on Quentin’s wrist is swollen slightly with the impending heat, and he shivers when Eliot touches it, eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat. 

So caught up is Eliot in the intimacy of the act, that he’s not at all prepared for it when Quentin pushes in and kisses him. It’s soft and brief, a gentle press of mouth to mouth, a fleeting impression of warm breath and chapped lips, and then Quentin’s pulling away. There’s no hint of sheepishness on his face as he settles back onto his hand, just a calm sureness, that quiet bravery that Eliot’s admired for so long just shining through. Quentin’s so _brave_ and _good_ and _true_ , and Eliot hasno idea what to do with any of that besides lean in to kiss him again. Fit his hand right where he remembers Quentin liked it, cradling the nape of his neck, and lean in to catch that sweet mouth in a longer, deeper kiss. It’s _lovely_ , and it makes Eliot’s head spin, this wonderful man, with his scent which warms and sustains and nurtures... how does Eliot get this? This, the heady drag of Quentin’s mouth over his, the scratch of his stubble, the sweet heat of his mouth— it’s so good, and it’s just a kiss. 

“I, um,” Quentin starts when they break apart, audibly losing his train of thought when Eliot nuzzles in to scent him like he’s been aching to do for hours, tucking his nose right up in under the sharp cut of his jaw, scratchy with stubble. God that _smell_ , the sweetness of it, coupled with the wonderful masculinity of his solid little frame... it’s delicious, it really is. Q makes the sweetest little sound, the happy little omega trill that makes Eliot feel like his chest is filling up like a balloon, lost in pride and affection and the thrill of _having._ “I was thinking.”

Eliot hums to show he’s listening, and then pulls back with a sigh when Quentin doesn’t continue. His eyes are dark and kind of glassy, but he’s frowning like he’s trying to get his brain back on track and probably Eliot’s not helping with that. So he redirects his hand to hold one of Quentin’s, cups the other warmly around the muscle of his calf. “You were thinking?”

“Yeah— I. So I should have thought about this earlier, but. There’s spells for birth control, right? Because I think my implant is due to run out in the next couple of months, and that seems like a kind of big gamble to take.” 

Which, fuck, yeah, that’s a thing they have to worry about, isn’t it? “There are,” Eliot assures, squeezing gently on Quentin’s hand until he relaxes. “I know one, though it works better when it’s cast on a talisman than as a one-off spell. Margo showed me, helped me do it on a couple rings in case it came up, but. Honestly I don’t fuck omegas that much.”

He feels a little embarrassed admitting it, suddenly, in a way he hasn’t for a long time. But Quentin just snorts, dropping his chin back onto his arms. “I’ve noticed that,” he says, dry, then gives a little shrug. “I usually end up with betas, so— I can’t really judge you. I mostly have the implant because it’s supposed to help with mood stabilization. Supposedly.”

Eliot frowns at that, at the wryness in his voices. “Did it not?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin sighs, looking down at where Eliot’s fingers are woven through his. His thumb brushes across Eliot’s wedding ring, sending a little wave of guilt splashing against the inside of Eliot’s ribcage. He hasn’t thought about Fen in _weeks_ , she hasn’t even crossed his mind since he started picking up the change in Quentin’s scent. And they’re not _mates_ , she’s a beta and a woman, mating wasn’t even on the table and even if she’d had the capacity to bond he wouldn’t have wanted to but— they have a _pup_ , and Eliot forgot about her.

God. It’s not like Eliot had never operated under the illusion that he’d be a particularly good father, but he’d thought he’d at least be able to clear the bar of being physically present and not off knotting someone else. 

“Hey,” Quentin says, voice quiet, fingers tightening in Eliot’s, drawing him back to the present. “How are _you_ feeling?

_A little like I’m flying apart at the seams_. God, Eliot couldn’t say that, not to Quentin, not when Quentin needed him solid and present and stable. _Stable_ , what a joke. When has Eliot ever been stable? But fuck, he wants to be. Can’t he pretend, just for the length of this heat, that he can provide the kind of dependability Quentin deserves. “Just a little territorial,” he offers, which has the benefit of actually being true. “Which isn’t exactly normal for me, but I can handle it.”

“I feel like that shouldn’t be reassuring,” Quentin sighs, dropping back to sprawl out in his nest. It makes the edge of his t-shirt ride up, revealing a strip of skin across his hips, pale and inviting. Eliot makes himself lay down by Quentin’s side so he doesn’t touch, reach out and slide his fingers up Quentin’s belly or down below his waist band. _Later, later, later_. Quentin’s looking at him with a little bit of a teasing sparkle to his eye, voice full of trouble when he says “But I did go through all the effort of making this nest— someone’s gotta protect it.”

“Jesus,” Eliot groans out, dropping his forehead down against the point of Quentin’s shoulder. Instinct screams at him to growl and pounce and _bite_ , prove he can protect Quentin’s nest, but that’s _stupid_. What the fuck is he protecting it from, the talking squirrels? “You’re killing me, Q.”

Quentin snickers, clearly pleased with himself, wriggling around until Eliot throws an arm out across him, pinning him across his chest. That’s enough to make him go still, scent dilating with a spike of heat. Instinct rears in Eliot’s chest, saying _roll him over, pin him, you’re bigger than him, you can hold him down._ Quentin’s eyes are dark when Eliot meets them, and for a heart beat Eliot wonders if he’s fighting a mirrored urge, to roll over onto his belly and let himself be pinned. “El—”

“We should eat,” Eliot cuts off, drawing his arm back to himself and sitting up. There’s only a little bit of a waiver to his voice, and that fades as he pushes through. “C’mon, we need to carb load beforehand. Also protein, we should probably have like— protein. And water, you need to hydrate.”

It’s a mark of the heat that Quentin doesn’t protest being coddled, but Eliot’ll take the advantage while he has it. Preparing meals always feels like it takes forever in Fillory, and by the time they’re done eating the sun is already setting. Going on nothing but Quentin’s scent and the feeling in Eliot’s own body, he thinks they’ll probably make it to sunrise, but neither of them seems inclined to push it. Quentin’s a little clingier than usual, reluctant to move much more than a few feet away. It’s the kind of thing Eliot had always found stifling, a reason to avoid this level of entanglement with an omega, but— he doesn’t want Quentin out of arm’s reach either. 

They end up settling down in the nest early on the pretense of Quentin reading aloud, but they barely get through a chapter of the book he’s working through before his focus is totally gone, squirming around as discomfort settles into his body. Eliot works through the ritual of a contraceptive charm, casting it on his opal ring for lack of a better alternative. It won’t last more than a couple days anyway, not without the materials and time to cast a stronger version. But it should see them through the heat, which is starting to show physically on Quentin now. A thin sheen of sweat covers his brow, darkening his t-shirt at the armpits and the center of his chest. It should be gross and yet Eliot mostly just wants to lick him all over. 

“I’ve never done this with an alpha,” Quentin mutters into a darkness broken only by the glowing embers of the coals in the cooking fire. It’s near enough to what he’d said earlier that Eliot almost loses the thread of it to his sleepiness, his body’s final desperate bid at rest before anything more than a couple hours at a time is lost to them. But _I usually end up with betas_ doesn’t have quite the same meaning, does it? “I don’t really know what to expect— I mean, my dad’s a beta, and so is Julia, and like, okay, James was an alpha but he was really more Julia’s boyfriend than he was my friend and plus he had his own place so— I— I, um.”

Listening to Quentin ramble is genuinely one of Eliot’s favorite things to do, but this particular string of nervous energy is hitting wrong somehow. Maybe it’s the sour bite to his scent, something that makes discomfort prickle up the back of Eliot’s spine. A low, soothing rumble starts up in his chest before he’s thought about it, isn’t sure he could summon it if he _did_ want to, but Quentin quiets in response, rolling off his back and onto his side towards Eliot, until they’re face to face in the dark. “It’ll be okay,” Eliot promises, because it will be. They’ll have a bunch of really energetic and needy sex, and Eliot will keep his teeth to himself, and they’ll probably even be able to look each other in the eye, afterwards. They’ve got a pretty good track record for that.

“I just don’t know what to expect,” Quentin repeats, a kind of resigned finality to his voice, like he’s admitting a shameful fault in his inability to predict the future. “Makes me anxious, I guess.”

“I’ve done a heat with an omega before,” Eliot offers, for what it’s worth, a million years ago and galaxies away, and no one who matters a quarter as much as Quentin, but if it helps allay his worry... “It was fine, a little more intense than normal sex, but I’ve had more chemistry with men in other settings that made me feel more out of control than that did. I promise, you don’t have to be scared of me.”

“Oh, _god_ , no— Eliot, that’s not what I meant,” Quentin rushes to say, hand flying out to curl around Eliot’s wrist. A flare of tingles extends up from where Quentin’s middle and ring finger have closed over his scent gland, and Eliot inhales instinctively. That rich spicy note tickles the back of his nose, inviting him to seek it out, scent and lick at Quentin’s throat. “I didn’t mean _you_ , I just. I don’t know how it’s going to affect me, and I don’t like not knowing what my brain is going to do. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry to tell you that the answer to ‘what is your brain going to be doing’ is ‘not much’ baby,” Eliot says gently, fondly, pulling his wrist out of Quentin’s grip to reach up and tuck his hair back behind his ear. 

“Yeah.” Quentin blows out a short breath, nose wrinkling up. “I hate that.” He blinks slowly under Eliot’s careful touch, then very deliberately tips his head back, exposing the expanse of his throat. Invitations don’t get much clearer than that, and Eliot takes it, dragging the gland on his wrist down across Quentin’s throat. It’s a deeply, _deeply_ satisfying action, leaving the scent of his own impending sympathy rut marked across Quentin’s skin. It draws out a sweet, happy omega sound from Quentin, a quiet little trill that sends a spark of joy through Eliot’s chest. _Job well done_. 

“You know, I thought you were a beta when we met,” Quentin muses thoughtfully, his eyes glassy but steady, fixed on Eliot. “Which, you know— I like betas, even beta men—”

“Yes, Quentin’s queer, we know,” Eliot nudges him off at the pass, smiling a little. “Not omegas, though?”

“I tried,” Quentin admits, which is actually a surprise. Eliot didn’t know that. “The smell was just wrong for me, though. I couldn’t get past it.”

“Kinsey 5 is still queer,” Eliot offers, and Quentin scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Do you remember those classes in high school, where you got divided up by sex and then by gender?” Quentin asks, voice low and quiet, like they’re swapping gossip at a sleepover. “Getting a lecture on what it means to be an omega, and then getting split off again so it was just the guys, and us getting lectured on... different forms of birth control, and how to be safe with beta girls. It _sucked_. I always thought it all made us a lot more scared of alphas than it would have if we’d just had the stupid class together.”

“I grew up in rural Indiana, Q, _comprehensive sex ed_ was never exactly anyone’s priority.”

“Oh, I didn’t—I didn’t know that.” 

And shit, fuck, yeah, no, of _course_ he didn’t, of course he didn’t know that, no one knows that but Margo. It was his fucking _secret_ , highest governing internal circumstance, and he fucking blurted it out unprompted. There’s a swooping rush of fear in his stomach like he missed a step going down stairs, an involuntary tremble in his chin when he looks up to meet Quentin’s eyes. But he just looks interested, maybe a bit curious, but mostly sleepy. “Well. Now you do.”

Quentin hums, a quiet little sound, wriggling a little closer so their knees brush. “That sounds, like— abjectly terrible.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t great,” Eliot gets out on a laugh, trying not to think of literally any of it. Desperate, almost, not to bring any of that into Quentin’s nest. He shifts a little, tangling their legs together properly, and Quentin takes the excuse to scoot in the rest of the way, tucking his nose and mouth into the open collar of Eliot’s shirt. It should feel familiar by now, but something about the impending heat makes the touch feel suddenly new and shockingly intimate. “Get some sleep, Q.”

“You first,” Quentin mumbles back, half-way there already. Eliot’s pretty sure Q falls asleep first, but it’s a near thing either way. 

___

Quentin’s already awake when Eliot wakes up, shirtless and sitting knees-to-chest a couple feet away. Blinking groggily in the early morning light, Eliot pushes up on his elbow to get a better lay of the land. Even at this distance, Quentin looks sweaty and miserable, pretty mouth turned down and damp across his hairline. He’s staring off into the middle distance, seemingly unaware of Eliot, not startled by his movement. 

“Q?” That is enough to make Quentin jump, looking over towards Eliot with a frown. He’s flushed across the apples of his cheeks, the scent of spice rolling off him in waves. “Are you okay?”

“I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin,” Quentin admits, eyes flicking a quick path from Eliot’s mouth to his throat to his hands and then away. 

Right. Eliot pushes up to sit, trying to take stock of his own body. He feels— well, about a hair’s breadth away from getting hard, honestly, but that’s mostly Quentin’s scent. “How can I help?”

“I dunno,” Quentin groans out, scrubbing his hands up over his face, eyes hot and fever-bright. “Let me scent you?”

“Of course,” Eliot murmurs, scooting close enough to offer up his right wrist. Quentin takes it, tipping his face with a quiet moan, nose and mouth dragging over Eliot’s skin. He’s hot to the touch when Eliot reaches up to smooth his hair back, skin tacky with sweat. His hair’s come loose from the elastic which is presumably lost somewhere in the bedding— Quentin’s going to _lose his shit_ if he loses that elastic— and Eliot gathers up a handful of silky hair, pushing it up off his neck. Quentin makes a weak, needy sound, shivering a little as the gland on his neck is exposed to the air. Scent smacks Eliot in the face like a 2x4, the _need_ of heat, Quentin’s body calling out to him. “Baby...”

“I hate this part,” Quentin whines, face mashing into Eliot’s wrist. “I feel like my brain’s full of soup, god— I just want— but it hasn’t _started_ yet.”

Eliot kind of doubts that. Everything about Quentin’s scent is saying _lets go, right now_ , but Eliot’s skepticism has no place in Quentin’s nest. He’s just gotta trust that Quentin knows what he needs. Tension curls under Eliot’s skin, leaving him with the start of an erection like his body’s answering Q’s, _ready to go, anytime._ He’s not even thinking when he bends down to kiss at the back of Quentin’s neck, soft and wet, tasting the salt of sweat and the heady musk of omega heat. Quentin cries out, a shiver wracking through his body, down the beautiful line of his back, broken only by the blue-black ink of the tattoo between his shoulder blades. “Let me help,” Eliot purrs, a deep rumble in his voice that even he can hear, but it makes Quentin go boneless. “Baby— Q— let me help.”

Quentin’s fingers fist weakly in the material of Eliot’s sleeve, tugging at it. “I want— _skin_ , Eliot. God, it just—”

“I know,” Eliot rumbles back, soothing, kissing softly across Quentin’s shoulders, keeping his mouth from where it wants to go, the bond point at the gland on Quentin’s throat. _Keep your shit together, Waugh_. A final parting kiss against Quentin’s hot skin, and Eliot pulls away, freeing his wrist from Quentin’s grip long enough that he can shed his clothes. Q follows his lead, wiggling out of his jeans and tossing them somewhere in the nest, until suddenly they’re both naked.

Barely out of his clothes, Quentin’s already crawling up into Eliot’s lap, hands bracing on Eliot’s shoulders while Eliot catches his waist, steady. It’s so familiar, god, Eliot _remembers_ this, Quentin in his lap, looking at Eliot with big needy eyes, mouth open and pink from Margo’s biting kisses. But now there’s no Margo, Quentin’s sweet little omega sounds just for Eliot— all for him, when he leans in to kiss at Q’s eager inviting mouth. He sighs and goes practically liquid under Eliot’s attention, letting out a shocky moan when Eliot cups his nape, thumb brushing out against the sensitive gland on his throat. 

“Are you sure you’re not ready yet?” Eliot murmurs against Quentin’s lips, cupping his waist with one hand and his jaw with the other, holding him close while Quentin melts.

“Doesn’t hurt yet,” Quentin mutters back with a shake of his head. It sends a spike of— _something_ , some feeling, some deep protective instinct, something feral with _teeth_ through Eliot’s chest. Was that what heat was to Quentin? Holding back until the last possible second, until the cramps, the ache of being empty left him no other choice?

“Sweet boy, it doesn’t have to hurt,” Eliot soothes, letting his left hand drift back, down petting over the small of Quentin’s back until he’s wriggling in Eliot’s lap. “Let me get inside you before it starts to hurt, okay? Okay, sweet thing? Please, I’ll make you feel so good.”

“It’ll— I might not be able to take it yet,” Quentin breathes out, a frown in his brow even as he pushes back onto Eliot’s hand. 

“You can take my fingers,” Eliot murmurs, rubbing his palm across the small of Quentin’s back, down to squeeze at a furred cheek. “We don’t have to wait until your body’s desperate, we can just fuck like normal. I promise I can get you wet baby, I could even if you weren’t in heat.”

“God, I _don’t know—_ sex isn’t _good_ for me, El, it just _happens_.”

That dark feral feeling snaps its teeth, god, it’s everything Eliot can do not to _growl_. It should be good, any person lucky enough to get to put their hands on Quentin should try to _make it good_. The tender ache in Eliot’s heart is losing ground to the hungry possessiveness of this most peculiar rut, though. Eliot would be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking _good, let me be better than anyone else who’s had you_.

With careful fingertips, Eliot pets down the crack of Quentin’s ass until he meets the telling slickness of Quentin’s arousal. God, he’s _wet_ , fluid everywhere, slicking down the hair between his cheeks. He jolts, shocky, letting out the tiniest little moan as Eliot’s fingers find his hole, finally, probably not loose enough to take a knot yet, that’s true, but more than ready for the two fingers Eliot sinks inside him. 

“ _Ohh_ ,” Quentin sighs, breath brushing out across Eliot’s collarbone. It’s an all encompassing sound, maybe surprised, maybe pleased, maybe a moan. Q’s fingers flex on Eliot’s shoulders as he goes a little limp, trusting more of his body weight to Eliot. It’s alright, Eliot can take it. 

“Yeah?” he asks, half a check in, half just— to say something, anything, as Quentin nuzzles absently against his neck.

“‘S nice,” he slurs, pulling back enough to meet Eliot’s gaze. God, he’s flushed, pink across his cheeks and pink down his chest, _beautiful._ He’s beautiful, rocking back just a little on Eliot’s fingers, eyes hot and mouth open as he drags in air. “Can you— another one?”

“Of course, baby,” Eliot purrs, holding Quentin steady by the hip while he draws his fingers out and sinks them back in, three this time. Q’s head tips back on a moan, the long pale column of his throat exposed. _Keep your teeth to yourself_ , Eliot instructs himself sternly, but he can’t stop himself from nuzzling to lay wet, sucking kisses up to Quentin’s jaw. “That’s good, yeah, taking my fingers so well. Gonna take my knot, huh baby?”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Quentin hisses, tightening perceptably on Eliot’s fingers then going loose, looser still. The heat of his scent is stronger now, flushed all over and glassy, and Eliot just wants— he _wants_. Wants to bury himself inside to the hilt and stretch Quentin open on his knot, make him _full._ He’s growling a little, not meaning to but it’s happening anyway, a low rumble in his chest in response to Quentin’s needy little moans.

When it hits, it hits without fanfare, Quentin going still in Eliot’s arms for a moment, then melting, boneless, against his chest. Eliot’s whole hand is covered in his slick, running down his wrist in riverlets, but he can smell the change, tipping off the precipice into a proper heat. And he could, god, he could just pull Quentin’s limp body down onto his cock like this, but he doesn’t— he wants to _mount_. “There you go, good boy. Can you get on your knees for me?”

A soft whine of protest falls from Quentin’s mouth, turning into a whimper when Eliot draws his fingers out. Carefully, he tips Quentin out of his lap back onto the nest, but Q’s moving on instinct now. He rolls over and pushes up onto his knees without Eliot saying another word, ass in the air in a beautiful presentation pose. Hunger curls deep in Eliot's belly as he gets up on his own knees behind Quentin, dick achingly hard already, standing out from his stomach with a growing ache at the base, deflated knot begging for stimulation. Reverently, he palms Quentin’s furry ass cheeks, spreading him open with his thumbs so that sweet needy little hole is on display, open and loose. Entranced, he pets the rim with his thumb, watching it wink open and closed on another burst of slick, making Quentin keen.

“I’ve got you,” Eliot murmurs, shuffling forward on his knees until he can drag the head of his cock up and down the crack of Quentin’s ass, smearing through all the slick.

“ _Please_ ,” Quentin gasps out, shuddering, fingers fisting in the nest. “I need it, I _need_ it, I need— El, I need—”

“I know,” Eliot soothes, feeling fucking drunk, god, his head is spinning, all he can see or hear or smell is Quentin, soft and open and needing him. Quentin’s slim little hips fit so perfectly in Eliot’s hands, it’s impossibly easy to hitch him up and get the angle right so Eliot can just, oh _fuck_ , sink all the way in on a single fluid push. Quentin moans, long and deep, every muscle in his body going tight as he _comes_ , god he’s coming, just from Eliot pushing inside him. “Oh, baby, you need it so bad, huh?”

“Uh huh. Uh— _oh_ ,” Quentin moans, startling into Eliot’s hand when he slips one down to cup Quentin’s sweet little cock, leaking fluid _everywhere_ , god. “‘S— hng— _big_.”

It shoots a bolt of weird pride down into Eliot’s belly, preening a little, too deep into it to be even a little bit ashamed at getting off on Quentin's slurred praise. “Taking it so well,” he coos, pulling his hand back to Quentin’s hips so he can start to move, drawing back in a long slow slide and then pushing back in _deep_ until Quentin’s clenching rim squeezes on the ache of his loose knot. “God, Q, you feel so good.”

“It’s— _ah!—_ it’s good, it’s good,” Quentin agrees, face grinding into the bedding, the beautiful column of his back on display, _god_. 

Letting go of Quentin’s hips, Eliot wraps one arm around his belly, bracing his left diagonally across Quentin’s shoulders, pinning him down. Like this he can drape himself along Quentin’s back, get enough leverage to pin him and really _fuck_ , hard and deep. It’s good, fuck it’s good like this. Q curled in the crook of his body, Eliot can hold him close and tight and fuck just right. The angle seems to really be working for Quentin if his moans are anything to go by, and it’s working for Eliot too, the way his nipples drag against Quentin’s back on every thrust, their skin sticking together with sweat, it’s perfect, it’s _perfect_ , god— all he can _smell_ is Quentin, all he can think is how good it is to bury himself inside, again and again, god, fill him _up_.

Eliot feels _wild_ with it, control slipping away as Quentin keens, clamping down on the inflating knot as he comes _again_. The scent of his arousal is crawling into Eliot’s brain, this sweet, clever, brave omega who’s been sharing Eliot’s bed for _months_ , god he’s— _he’s mine_ , Eliot thinks helplessly, _he’s mine, he’s mine, god he should be mine, I want him to be mine_. His jaw _aches_ with the urge to bite, sink his teeth in and _claim_ , stronger than he’s ever felt before. The swell of his knot catches on the next thrust, big enough finally to begin to lock, and Eliot just. Sinks his teeth into his own forearm, braced across Quentin’s shoulders, drunk on scent as orgasm bowls him over, slamming deep inside and staying there, buried to the hilt.

“ _Oh_ ,” Quentin gasps, shivering through another weak orgasm of his own, but Eliot doesn’t have wherewithal to help him with it, jaw locked in a bite on his own skin as pleasure expands through him, the long, slow burn of a locked knot. He startles a little when Quentin shifts enough to reach back, fingers sliding into Eliot’s curls. “Yeah, El, that’s it.”

Forcing his jaw to relax, Eliot pulls back enough to see the deep grooves in his own skin. The bite wasn’t enough to break skin, but he’ll have a bruise there in the coming days. What he’d said to Quentin before had been true, he’d _never_ felt this out of control during a rut, and it’s honestly a little terrifying. Fear prickles up the back of his neck, but it stops at the steady stroke of Quentin’s fingers at his curls. Quentin, who needs Eliot to take care of him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Q sighs, shifting a little under Eliot’s bulk, clenching around his knot. “It’s nice, feels good. We can stay like this for a while, yeah?”

“We’re not going to have a lot of choice in the matter,” Eliot admits, amusement creeping into his voice. “Usually takes about twenty minutes to go down. Less, normally, but— different, during rut.”

“God, that sounds _nice_ ,” Quentin groans, and Eliot can’t help but smile against his shoulder, kiss him softly. 

“Be nicer if we can get on our sides,” Eliot murmurs, a wave of fond protectiveness flooding through him. “Balancing like this for a long time isn’t going to be fun.

“Yeah, I guess maybe,” Quentin sighs.

He squeezes his arms around Quentin’s waist, Eliot holds them pressed together as tightly as he’s able so it doesn’t tug too badly when they tip over onto their sides in the nest. Quentin still yelps in protest, but he settles quickly, back to chest in Eliot’s arms, still gripping Eliot’s knot firmly inside. It’s wonderful, god, Eliot buries his nose in Quentin’s hair, dragging in his scent, palm rubbing along the tender exposed curve of his belly.

“Next time,” Quentin starts, sending a little spark of excitement down Eliot’s spine, because _yeah_ , they’ve got hours of this left to ride out. “— can we do it on my belly? So we can just— stay, with you on top of me?”

Eliot swallows, tenderness and hunger tugging at the fear in his chest. “That sounds nice, baby.”

“Yeah, it does,” Quentin sighs out happily, wriggling a little in Eliot’s arms like he can squirm back any further. Eliot squeezes around him instinctively, and he settles, relaxing in Eliot’s hold. “Can I...”

“Yes,” Eliot answers immediately, feeling a fond spark of amusement that Quentin has any embarrassment left in him. “Anything. What do you need?”

Quentin doesn’t answer out loud, just reaches down to catch Eliot’s hand, the one petting at his belly. Tugging it up, he folds two of Eliot’s fingers until he can slide them into his mouth, sucking softly. His _mouth_ , fuck, warm and wet and sweet, it’s enough to spark a pulse of pleasure down into Eliot’s spent dick. But Quentin just melts, relaxed and content, eyes fluttering shut as he holds Eliot’s hand to his mouth.

“Perfect,” Eliot breathes out, just– holding him, because it’s all he can do. Kissing helplessly at his neck, Eliot nuzzles his ear, the point of his jaw. “You’re perfect, sweet thing.”

The break in the heat holds once Eliot’s knot goes down, Quentin still touch-hungry but not lost in it. There’s enough space left in Eliot’s brain to get him reaching for the water skins and stashes of food. Quentin’s disinterested in both but he lets Eliot coax him, swallowing sips of water, eating a ripe peach from Eliot’s fingertips. Then they settled back down together to wait for the next wave, Quentin on his stomach with Eliot curled along his side.

“You smell like honey, and like— wax,” Eliot murmurs, trailing his index finger up and down Quentin’s spine. It draws goosebumps up on his skin, a small smile up on his mouth as he turns to look over at Eliot. The hot glaze of heat has retreated slightly, and he looks sleepy, content. He smells content, he smells satisfied, the whole nest smells like satisfied omega which is kind of just making Eliot want to roll around it in, but. Quentin’s close, and cozy. That sweet soft smile creasing just the corner of his mouth... It’s so lovely. Eliot wants to kiss his dimples until he’s laughing, sprawling out in the nest that smells like them. Honey and wax and whatever his own scent is to the outside world, painted along Quentin’s skin.

“So I’m a bee?” Quentin asks drowsily. It’s so silly, and Eliot laughs, pushing up onto an elbow so he can kiss Quentin’s shoulder, warm skin under his lips, and rubs his nose up under Quentin’s loose hair.

“Honey bee,” he hums, nonsensical, and kissing the knob at the base of Quentin’s skull, and then the next, and the next, until he’s kissing the skin inked dark in the shape of a Q. 

He kisses down and down further still, until he’s kissing at the open slickness of Quentin’s ass, tasting him. Slick coats his chin, but he licks in anyway, tasting— _fuck_ , his own come, buried deep inside Quentin’s body. It makes that wildness flare in his chest, possessive and hungry as he chases the taste, pushing his tongue into Quentin’s body in long, steady strokes until his jaw’s aching with it, until his whole face is so wet it’s all he can fucking smell. Above him, Quentin’s practically sobbing, clenching in time with each needy little sound as Eliot works him back up to another peak of the heat. Then he does as he promised, pins Quentin on his belly and fucks him. Tucked over him like this, all he can manage is shallow little thrusts until the knot catches, leaving him able to do little more than grind in as he wrings another orgasm out of Quentin, burying his urge to bite again in his own arm. 

It does start to blend together a bit after that, as exhaustion begins to war against the heat hormones driving them both forward. A constant cycle of shifting focus makes Eliot’s head spin, _keep him fed, give him what he needs, keep your teeth in check_. During the last wave of the heat they fuck face to face, Quentin laying against Eliot’s chest with his thighs spread wide around Eliot’s hips, and Eliot doesn’t have to bite himself to stop from biting Q because he’s busy being kissed instead. They ride out the knot with Quentin’s head resting against the center of Eliot’s chest, warm reassuring weight pressing him down into the earth. 

He’s drifting a little, exhausted and half asleep, and Eliot’s not doing much better, eyes mostly shut and palms smoothing over Quentin’s skin. He feels boneless, wrung out and spent, but so— _grateful_ , really, some core-deep part of him feels satiated. Every so often Quentin turns his fact to nuzzle in against Eliot’s chest hair with a happy little hum, smearing that waxy-honey scent against Eliot’s skin. Holding Quentin like this, so vulnerable and tender and dear, Eliot feels closer to him than he’s ever felt to another person in his life.

The thought jolts him out of his sleepiness, a spike of adrenaline sending his heart racing. Quentin makes an unhappy sound, soft at the back of his throat, rubbing his nose against the center of Eliot’s chest like he can calm him just through touch. It might even work, if the exact source of Eliot’s sudden panic were directly tied to how much he wants to keep Quentin right here against his chest for the foreseeable future. But his scent is almost completely devoid of spice, and by the time the knot goes down enough that Quentin can roll off with a sigh, it’s clear the heat’s broken. 

“How are you feeling?” Eliot asks, an odd clog of emotion flooding up against the panic in his chest as Quentin settles next to him on his back, side by side and close enough that their arms brush. 

“Tired. Sore,” Quentin sighs, stretching a little with a soft groan. Then he rolls his head over towards Eliot, soft smile and warm eyes. “Better than I usually do after heat. Thanks to you.”

Panic constricts deep in Eliot’s chest, acrid and bitter. “It’s the dehydration,” he says lightly, looking away and up towards the roof of the little cabin, at the old thatched hay up there. Do they need to replace that? How does one thatch? “You need to remember to eat and drink more during heat.”

“Yeah, that must be it,” Quentin says after a beat, settling his head back against a raised arm, leaving Eliot aching inside. 

The bites on his arm do bruise spectacularly in the coming days, mottled purple tinged with green in the shape of his own teeth. He keeps the sleeves of his shirt down so he doesn’t keep _looking_ at them, worrying the memories like he wants to worry the bruises, fighting them like he’s fighting the urge to press his thumb into the center of the tender achy skin. Things have gone back to normal, more or less, with the puzzle and the business of survival to keep them occupied. Quentin’s a little quieter than usual, maybe, but he doesn’t seem unhappy. Just exhausted. Maybe he’s always like this after a heat. 

But the bed in the cabin still smells like them, scent buried deep in the blankets now draped over them. Eliot had taken both the new blanket and the quilt down to the creek after the heat, but no amount of washing and spellwork had been able to work their scent out of the fabric. Every night, Eliot climbs into bed and tries to keep his mind blank and his heart quiet, laying on his side facing into the room with Quentin at his back. Quentin seems to be taking his cues from Eliot, keeping his distance, but in sleep their bodies drift back together, and more than once Eliot wakes up with Quentin curled around his back, a tiny and adorable big spoon.

He’s starting to think that sticky feeling of emotion clogging his chest might actually fucking _kill him_ , drifting to sleep every night like this. They got through the heat, this wild, needy feeling should start to _go away_ now, but it’s _not_. It’s not, it’s not fading with the bruises, and Eliot has no idea what to do. Lying awake in bed, staring out into the cramped little bedroom, Eliot feels paralyzed. They’ve got a couple months, probably about ten weeks if he’s got the math right, until Eliot’s rut hits and then what’s he supposed to do? Go down into the village and stay away for long enough that _his_ hormones don’t trigger a sympathy heat in Quentin? Spend the rut here, together? 

The thought startles a feeling of both arousal and shame through his body. They could have it again, that closeness, that feeling— but Eliot knows himself, knows what he wants in rut, and it’s _not that_. He hasn’t spent a rut with an omega in _years_ , even Fen had been a beta and then he’d had Idri too. Maybe it could work, maybe he could stuff it down and ride out the rut the way he’s supposed to. The heat had been good, maybe it could be good to do it that way, maybe he won’t even miss getting fucked.

Quentin sighs softly in his sleep, shifting to curl toward Eliot with a sleepy snuffle. Eliot freezes, caught out. Usually he’s asleep too by the time Quentin gets cuddly, but tonight he’s well aware of Quentin reaching out for him. On his side like this, Eliot’s bruised-up arm is resting on top of the blanket, and of course that’s where Quentin’s hand falls as he worms in behind Eliot’s back. His broad palm presses into the achy tender skin, and for a moment, Eliot actually lets himself imagine asking for what he wants: Quentin’s broad hands and his powerful thighs and his sweet slender little omega cock. It’s not a knot, but it could still be good, it could still be— 

“Stop thinking,” Quentin mutters, breath brushing out against the hair on the back of Eliot’s. “No thinking, just sleeping.”

Which is pretty rich, coming from King Quentin The Overthinker, but Eliot refrains from pointing it out. It’s pretty solid advice. After all, they’re supposed to be saving the overthinking for the puzzle. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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